THE WORLD OF BOOKS.

Press, Volume LXIII, Issue 19180, 10 December 1927, Page 13

THE WORLD OF BOOKS.

HALF HOURS IN A LIBRARY. (»«ciii.w waitriH ton the naw .) By A. H. Grinltxg. CCXLVII.-ON DEATH AND DYI\G (2).

Henley, declares his biographer, had no fear of death. "Ho had lived too near t o> death all his life to dread that which was to come, soon or late; rather had he a solemn looking-forward, a brave resignation; and his passing was in peace." Th o same writer adds: "When Henley passed into the great silence his aspiration, which he had made into verse, twenty-seven years before his time came, was fulfilled":—

A late lark twitters from the quiet skies And from the west,. Where the sun, thin day's work ended, Lingers as in content, There falls on tho old grey city An influence luminous and serene, A shining peace.

The smoke ascends In a rosy and golden haze. The spires Shine, and are changed. In the vallev Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The* sun Closing his benediction, Sinks, and the darkening air Thrills with a sense ot the triumphing night— Night with her train ol stars And her great gift of speech.

So be my passing. My task accomplished and the long day done, My wages taken, and in my heart Some late lark singing, Let me be gathered to the quiet west, Tho sundown splendid and serene, Death.

Henley has many poems relating to death and the apparent end of things. Turning over the pages of "The Joy of Life," the latest anthology compiled by that prince of anthologists, Mr E. V. Lucas, I was struck by his choice from Henley's poems. It is A'o. XLVII. of "Echoes," and Mr Lucas heads it "A Review": —

Crosses and troubles a many havo proved me. Ono or two women (God bless them) have

loved inc. I havo worked and dreamed, and I've talked at will, Ot art and drink I have had my fill. I've comforted here, and I've succoured there, I've faced my foes and I've backed my

friends. I've blundered and sometimes made amends, I have prayed for light, and I've known despair. Now I look before, as I look behind, Come storm, come shine, whatever befall. With a grateful heart and a constant mind For the end I know is the best of all.

The value of anthologies, to my mind, .-is the introduction which they give the student to new writers. In this respect Mr Lucas is indefatigable. He describes "The Joy of Life" as "an anthology of lyrics drawn chiefly from the works of living poets," and his notes on sources and acknowledgments add considerably to the value of the collection. He selects a little poem, "On Going," by Counteo Cullen, and Says: "Mr Countee Oullen's poem will bo found in 'Colour' (Messrs Harper and Brothers). Mr Oullnn, I might say, is a young negro poet of very remarkable emotional quality." The poem is a gem of the first water.

A grave is all too weak a thins To hold my fancy loiir. I'll bear a blossom with the spring, Or bo a blackbird's song.

I think that I uliall fado with ease, Melt" into earth like snow. Be food for hungry, growing trees, Or help tho lilies blow.

And if my lovo should lonely walk, Quito of my nearness fain, I may come back to her and talk In .liquid words ot rain.

The same anthology has 33 final selection Sidney Lanier's ."The Stirrup Cup." Lanier is a much neglected poet, and the pages of his" volume of "Poems," edited hy his wife, and with a memorial by William Hayes Ward,is a treasure house of beautiful and inspiring thoughts. That memorial concludes:' "But how short was his day, and how slender his opportunity. From the timo ho was of age he waged a constant, courageous, hopeless fight against circumstances for room to live and write. . . . Yet short as was his'literary life, and hindered though it were, its fruit will fill a largo space in tho garnering of the poetic art of our country." In which connexion the full meaning of "The Stirrup Cup" will appear:—

Death, thou'rt a cordial old and rare; Look how compounded, with what care Timo got his wrinkles reaping thee Sweet herbs from all antiquity. David to thy distillage wont, Keats and Gotamo, excellent _ Omar Khayyam and Chaucer bright, And Shakespeare for a King's doliglit. Then, Timo, lot not a drop bo spilt: Hand mo tho cup whene'er thou wilt; 'Tis thy rich stirrup cup to me: I'll drink it down quite smilingly.

This mention of Omar Khayyam brings back a recollection of the finest epitaph ever penned, minted by Fitzgerald from the stock of the astronomer poet ut Persia viz.: "I came like —.iter and like w'ind I go." Akin to Omar is Tagore, whose "Gitanjali" is profuse in its references to Death and Dying. I oamo across a quotation from "Gitan•jali" in one of tho strangest of places; at the ond of Victor Plarr's Life of Ernest Dowson. "I have got my leave. Bid me farewell, my brothers, I bow to vou all and take* my departure. ''Here I give back the keys of my door —and I give up all claims to my house. I only ask for last kind words from vou. Wo were neighbours for long, but I received more than I could give. Now the dav has dawned and the lamp that lit my* dark corner is out. A summons has come and I am ready for my journev."

When all is said and done, however,, the most magnificent attitude to death and dving is that exhibited in Eobert Louis' Stevenson's well-known "Requiem " A man who suffered continually from ill-health wns able- to say "Joying to live I joyed to die." I hesitate to quote such familiar lines, hut am encouraged so to do from the fact thnt Mr Lucas includes them in his anthoblgy:—

\ow when tho number of my yean 3s all fulfilled, and i From sedentary life !>hall rouse me up to die, Bury me low. and let me lie Under the wide and starry sky Joying to live, I joyed to die Bury me low, and let me he.

Clear was my soul, my deeds were free, Honour was called my name. I fell not back from fear, Nor followed after fame: Burr me low and let me lie Und'er the wide and starry sky. Joying to live, I joyed to dio: Bnrv me low, and let me lie.

Bury me low in valleys green. And where the milder breeie Blows fresh along the stream Sings roundly in the treesBury me low and let me lie Under the wide and starry sky Joying to live, I joyed to die: Bury me low, and let me lie.